Shadows in Paradise
by Lunicole
Summary: Ludwig is a Jewish expatriate who left the country in the mid-30s. After the war ends, he meets Alfred, a returning vet. Sparks, of one kind or another, fly.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: _Salt Peanuts_

It was a dingy little bar with bad beer, but Ludwig wasn't here for the beer, hadn't been anywhere for the beer for more than a decade already. He was here because he knew this was better than getting himself into another pointless unrequited business with a married man, and because there was no better cure for heartache than heavy drinking and a good fuck. These things happened. He was turning into an old man, and had started to get used to it.

The lights over him shone a soft, warm light, and the place was smoky and empty tonight. A few faces Ludwig recognised but somewhat preferred to avoid stood up against the dramatic red curtains, and the few religious icons which hung ironically against the wall next to the bar counter, some of them defaced by parties or years past, seemed to glow in the night like small little angry fireflies. Ludwig's eyes laid shamelessly on the caved abdomen of a crucified Jesus, more dissecting than longing in their intent. How gory.

The dingy little bar had a name. It was named _The Arrows_ , an inconspicuous name for a place that was pretty much an open secret in the red-light district or, as the locals called it, _Paradise_. It was because the owner, a Polish drag queen who only went by the name _Darling_ , had always been a proud catholic with a bit of a fascination with Saint Sebastian. She'd explained to him, with her usual slight lisp and exaggerated hand gestures, the story of the martyr, his miracles and the most profound effect her first contact with the saint's icons in a baroque church, during a field trip to a monastery as a child before the war, had done to her.

"Of course, a godless socialist like yourself wouldn't appreciate the great mysteries of the Church," she'd said to him at one point over their long acquaintance, her makeup still perfectly applied even though she'd just had to kick out another troublemaker while wearing sharp pink high heels.

The comment had made Ludwig chuckle as he'd lit up her cigarette, which she held like a Hollywood celebrity, all glamour and elegance in the way smoke danced on her bright red lipstick. Darling was like that, both delicate and fearless, somehow managing to tackle all the contradictions that made her, well, her.

"I thought you'd first invoke the fact that I'm a Jesus-killing Yid," he'd said with a shrug.  
"We're not in the old country anymore, and it's more fashionable to denounce communist sodomites nowadays."

Darling, however, was busy tonight, Ludwig could see, and he didn't feel like talking to her anyway. She strutted around greeting old acquaintances and eyeing suspiciously newcomers once in awhile in fear of another police crackdown that had costed her a few customers and a night in prison for crossdressing. Her steps, still, had the hidden strength of steel wire.

Darling was charming, but no good with heartaches. The fact that she had stopped caring a long time ago about how people thought and felt was what made her strong. Ludwig couldn't blame her for that.

A look at the wall clock informed him that he'd spent around two hours here already, and that he had done it alone. Wednesday nights were slow; married men with a dark secret spent their week watching bad TV shows with their wives and taking care of their children in overly decorated suburban homes. Ludwig bit his lips, tried to get it out of his mind. Someone put a jazz tune on the jukebox, one of those new fast, undanceable things that the younger generation seemed to like so much. It did however manage to detach his mind from more unpleasant things.

He drowned the whiskey like one would drown champagne. The beer was bad here anyway, and he was in the mood to get quickly, thoroughly drunk. Something, however, stopped him from ordering another too quickly.

"Two beers, please. One for me and one for the gentleman here."

There was a sharp smile, and warm, sunkissed skin that looked alien in this freezing, ugly city. Confidence oozing from a mellow tenor voice, and elegant ease as the man slipped on the bar stool next to him. He was young, at least ten years younger than Ludwig, but once again that wasn't exactly against Ludwig's taste when it came to men.

The beers arrived, and they toasted, silently. The stranger winked, and Ludwig rose an eyebrow, a bit against himself. It's not like he was anywhere against gorgeous strangers basically inviting him for sex, because the stranger was indeed gorgeous, with the kind of boyish look that never failed to remind Ludwig of long lost loves and sunny days in the streets of Venice.

"You looked bored," the stranger said simply, tapping his fingers on the counter mindlessly as his gaze laid heavily on Ludwig's form. "I thought I might help."

Ludwig forced a practiced easy smile as he appraised the stranger. Slightly shorter than him, blond, with that carefully gelled hair and thoughtfully picked clothing that somehow managed to pass as natural. He kept his voice steady, and his eyes met the stranger's own. They were blue, just like his own, but they seemed sharper, brighter, in a way.

"Hard to be bored when a handsome man buys you a drink."

The stranger laughed. It sounded both carefree and full of promises. Ludwig closed his eyes, wondering very briefly, if this wasn't like the darling rent boys who had made a fool out of him long ago. America wasn't the Berlin of years past, and this country was too busy buying washing machines and televisions, building cars and hunting communists to leave space for decadence and unnatural lust.

"Always glad to help, then. I'm Alfred Jones." The stranger's hand snaked to his thigh, and something like lust seemed to spark in his eyes. "But you can call me Al, if you'd like."

Ludwig sipped his beer, returned the look. That had been quick, but things were quick in America, unlike in the old country. Everything happened within the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, from television signals to the drop of an atom bomb.

 _Hard to be bored when a handsome man buys you a drink and flirts with you, indeed._

"Ludwig. My name is Ludwig."

Alfred nodded, and he didn't ask about Germany or something equally awful as the others usually did. He kept the hand on his thigh, the steady gaze, the flirty look, the easy charm. The rims of his glasses took a dark honey colour in the dim light, and it had an odd kind of appeal as he leaned in for a kiss, eyes closed and a giggle, maybe, losing itself on his lips.

The stranger smelled of alcohol, cheap cologne and sweat, but the kiss was nice without being too invasive. Ludwig let himself be led into the dance, the familiar motions of covert seduction in bars like this, away from dawn and the crisp light of reality.

"Hello, Ludwig," Alfred murmured against his cheek. "Let's make tonight a memorable night, shall we?"

They caught the rain on the way to Ludwig's apartment, and it made Alfred drunkenly laugh as they hurried through the alleyway and stopped at Ludwig's doorstep. There were messy, wet kisses on his neck as Ludwig fumbled with his keys, and he couldn't help but to lean into them, the slight buzz of alcohol making his thoughts fuzzy and his body eager for the warmth that seemed to radiate from Alfred's skin.

It was only when they finally got in the building that Ludwig let himself be taken for another deep kiss, flush against the wall, rain water still trickling down the nape of his neck. He'd have usually waited until he'd gotten into his own apartment to do that kind of thing, but he'd had quite a lot to drink, between the introductory beer and the several cocktails that had preceded their leaving of the bar. The landlady was a catty gossipmonger, a most typical old maid, and while she was stupid enough not to realise Ludwig's rather specific tastes or at least to accept his money every month, it didn't keep from insinuating she'd tell the authorities if anything suspicious happened in her house.

"My room is on the third floor," Ludwig managed to whisper in Alfred's ear between two light gasps.

The truth was that Alfred was young and he was beautiful, and there was something exhilarating in having a pretty little thing coming home with him without the usual uneasiness and shame of Ludwig's previous relationships. It seemed hard for him to keep his hands for himself as they climbed the badly lit stairs and his whole body seemed fidgety, both from drink and lust.

There was some more fumbling with keys, definitely enough noise to wake the neighbours, a chuckle or two.

They didn't even make it to Ludwig's bedroom. Alfred pushed him against the wall of his small kitchen with surprising strength, without much of a warning, before trailing down open-mouthed kisses over his neck, fumbling with his coat, his tie, his shirt. Nimble fingers undone his belt and took out Ludwig's semi-hard cock from his pants. Ludwig groaned between tightly shut teeth, closing his eyes as the man dropped to his knees and took him in his mouth.

It felt good. It hadn't felt that good in a long time, and it felt so good. It didn't take Ludwig long before he was fully hard, the combined skill of Alfred's hands and mouth bringing him closer and closer to climax. He'd mistakenly thought that Alfred wasn't very much experienced, from the giddy, almost boyish excitement he seemed to show whenever something caught his fancy. The spark in his eyes as he looked up to meet Ludwig's gaze, along with the ease with which he kissed and sucked, had proven him wrong.

Alfred hummed around his cock with a satisfied look on his face, and the vibration shot straight through Ludwig's spine, making his whole body arch in want. He couldn't have been more wrong about Alfred's inexperience. His hands went to the man's hair, gently pushing his face away. If Alfred kept going that way, Ludwig was bound not to last much more longer.

"Please," he said, his voice a little breathless. "Let me take care of you too."

His cock came out of Alfred's mouth with a wet little sound, and Ludwig almost whined at the cool air that hit his skin. There was an irresistible glint to Alfred's eyes, one that screamed _I want to ravage you_ in a way that made Ludwig shiver in anticipation. He placed an inviting hand on his hair, pressed him up against him for a kiss as they stumbled to bed.

Ludwig woke up naked with a hint of a headache to an empty bed, which wasn't a first time or all that surprising in any way. He dressed without much of a care, looked at his reflection for a long time on the bathroom mirror, shaved and splashed water over his face. It was bad enough to realise how old he had become.

Ludwig had woken up to an empty bed, but there was a note, with a somewhat messy handwriting, simply placed on the table along with a cooling coffee and an open radio softly playing swinging jazz tunes in the cool morning air.

 _That was fun. Let's do it again (mostly) sober next time. Call me soon._

A phone number, a name. The paper felt nice against his fingers, soft. To this, Ludwig could only smile, a little, and sigh, a bittersweet taste on his tongue, from the coffee and from the rest. The boy, because Alfred, with his blond hair and bright blue eyes, had everything of a boy, was a strange little thing, but an entertaining one too. Ludwig wasn't sure if he'd left a few words out of politeness or genuine interest, or maybe Ludwig wasn't sure if he wanted such a thing as another man, another risk to be sent to jail and another potential heartbreak now.

The sound of the train that passed right his window startled him out of his thoughts. He closed the window in one swift movement, and the moment was lost, just like that. The spartiate furniture of Ludwig's apartment seemed somewhat greyer, sterner at dawn. The city, with its streetcars and busy streets, didn't wait for Ludwig, and was already shaking itself awake.

* * *

Work had been slow at the funeral home. City folks didn't seem as keen on dying as they had been in the past few years, with the war over and the women back to the homes in which they belonged.

The building in which the family business stood was a moderately ugly one in one of the working class immigrant neighbourhoods, but it did have a rather imposing appearance. It was the large front door, the cheap wood panels with old fashioned Spencerian script announcing proudly the nature of their shop. The most impressive feature of the place, however, was the large granite obelisk, whose black elongated figure stood proudly in front of any potential visitor. The tombstone, for all its spark, was basically unsellable, had been ever since it had come into their possession, but its placing in front of the building did add some flair to an otherwise rather sad facade. The owner had, after all, always been an out of time aesthete.

"It's that damned war, as always," Roderich sighed as he passed Ludwig by at the counter with what seemed like some sort of inventory. "When it raged we got told there's no tombstones to sell, that businesses had been requisitioned for the war effort, whatever that might be. And now it's over and there's nowhere near as many people to bury anymore."

"We did have a boy who'd died in France a few years back and from whom they found the body only recently, I think," Ludwig responded politely. "Italian family, with the Catholic priest who wondered why they'd chosen to do business with a Jew."

Roderich let out a very weak, very tired cynical little laugh. It had been because the family couldn't afford anything better, and they both knew it.

"I'd forgotten about them, it's true…" Roderich marked a pause, looked at the papers in his hands, sighed and walked away. He never really liked to delve upon those things. None of them did, in fact.

Roderich seemed to count the urns in the showroom adjacent to the reception for a moment, scribbling notes down once in awhile as he did. Ludwig looked at him work for a few moment, still thoroughly bored, then turned his gaze back to the neatly kept open agenda which laid next to the phone in front of him. There were a few new names for the week etched in Roderich's fancy handwriting, but one of them caught his attention. He frowned at what he saw.

"Isaac Rosenberg? The old baker is dead?"

Roderich didn't bother to turn around. He made a vague gesture of the left hand, still going through the glass shelves where the urns laid in a neat row.

"He had a heart attack two days ago. The widow came here in tears yesterday, blamed the departure of her son for Palestine to have ruined the old man's health. Typical."

Ludwig frowned, now perusing the agenda in case he'd find another surprise there.

"Will you need me to do some overtime tomorrow?"  
"If you don't have anything better to do, I'm sure Mrs Rosenberg will love to tell you how much of a shame it is that a _mensch_ like you is still single and how she'd love to introduce you to her nieces."

Ludwig laughed, slightly uneasy, but it didn't matter. Roderich wasn't an idiot, but they would never talk about the reasons why Ludwig wasn't married, and wouldn't date for very long any of the girls Elizavetta had once tried to introduce him to. It wasn't proper to talk about these things, at least not in this country anymore.

"I'll be there, then," Ludwig smiled. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."

Roderich, who'd been crouching in front of the lower shelves of the urn display, rose back up, passing a hand through his perpetually messy hair, before heading past Ludwig and towards the backstore once more

"Great. I must go look over the flowers for tonight's reception. Elizavetta wants to make sure the rabbi who's coming tonight won't have anything to say about the casket being not _kosher_ enough or something like that. You know how she is."

It was a funny thing, and it never ceased to be funny, all things considered, to see how the Edelstein worked together. They were an strange, mismatched marriage against all odds, in a way, from their physiques, Roderich's sharp features and mannerisms against Elizavetta's softer traits and gestures, to their personalities and occasional clashes that ensued.

It had caused a mild commotion within the predominantly Jewish neighbourhood to hear that the Edelstein son, who had picked up his father's business, always of prime importance within the tightly knit, mostly Orthodox community, had married a fair-haired, catholic _shiksa_ after years of covert concubinage. It had been one of these juicy gossips that had kept housewives busy for months, as things such as these often would. While much of the hype had died down as Elizavetta, for all her Hungarian headstrong temperament and hard work, proved herself worthy of consideration, it still was one of those sore topics within the house, which was adjacent to the family business and in which some of the preparations for receptions were done.

The occasional fights Ludwig had witnessed had been strange, with Elizavetta usually being the most vocal one and Roderich only responding in angry but cool, witty retorts. These were healthy fights, he liked to think, and while they definitely made him uncomfortable, he could never really stay annoyed at the both of them. Roderich had been, ever since his arrival here, one of those silent, ever-present figures in his life on the basis of some remote shared ancestry, and he was grateful for the help, the job and the discretion it allowed him.

He continued perusing the catalog for their next casket order, humming to himself as he still thought about whatever had happened last week. Truth was that he hadn't called Alfred, no matter how much it felt like he should have. There were too many things crashing against themselves in his head, about past lovers and new ones, and about the intangible quality of a night that would stay in the past. It was stupid, and Ludwig couldn't help but to be acutely aware of that fact, but picking up the phone didn't feel right just yet.

Destiny, however, would have an interesting way of turning things around, under the form of a crisp green collar and familiar sharp white teeth that glinted into a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: _Jeepers Creepers_

Isaac Rosenberg, the baker, had indeed lived a long and fruitful life. There were many people who had showed up to pay their respects, solemn as protocol dictated. Roderich hadn't been wrong about Mrs Rosenberg and her very eligible relatives, but still Ludwig was glad to be there no matter what. While Roderich Edelstein was always too proud to ask for help, an extra pair of hands hadn't hurt with the preparations, and Ludwig had been fond enough of the old man Rosenberg and his bagels to feel like he needed to be present.

It would have been hard to properly describe Ludwig's usual feelings when it came to such funerals. The death of a local baker seemed to feel like more of a social occasion of some sort than an actual mourning day to a good chunk of the guests. While everyone did indeed stick to protocol and wear black, there were other ways of displaying wealth, standing and status within the family's acquaintances and remote relatives. It usually took the shape of a not-so-subtle row of large pearls around a middle aged lady's neck, or a certain manner of speaking and addressing both fellow guests and employees of the funeral home.

In that regard, Ludwig usually enjoyed working with gentiles better, although he never would have dared saying it out loud. It would have made Roderich raise an eyebrow, and justly so; most of their business remained within the community, as tradition dictated. Still, Ludwig had never really felt at ease having old aunts grieving by dragging him into old familial tragedies.

Magda Tannenbaum was a short, portly woman who wore severe long skirts and considered a well-tied headscarf to be the pinnacle of feminine virtue. The one she wore for the funeral, a pitch black satin veil that hid most of her hair, suited her, Ludwig couldn't help but to notice. It suited her acidic temper and witty displays of self-righteousness inherited from a strict, and outdated, old-continent upbringing.

"You know, I don't think any of this would have happened if young Lenny hadn't left his medicine studies to go plant orange trees in a _kibbutz_ against his old man's wishes."

She spoke with an odd sense of urgency, as if the words couldn't bear to linger in her mind any longer. Her tone was hushed, too. It was bad manners to gossip openly, but even worse manners not to gossip at all.

Ludwig could only nod awkwardly once in awhile as she dissected the family with unforgiving wit, the father and the son and the mother. There were more words about the drop-out son and the pushy mother, who was currently sobbing on the other side of the room, surrounded by the late baker's old business associates. Ludwig's eyes wandered upon them as the woman spoke, the way a young apprentice's yarmulke seemed crooked in a most inelegant manner, or how the family's designated accountant placed a hand over the widow's shoulder that lingered a little bit too long to be completely disinterested.

Then, Ludwig's eyes turned towards the window, and he frowned.

A flash of blue eyes, a wave, a smile. A mirage coming back to haunt him. _Scheiße._

There was something to be said about a uniform, how it sat upon a man's shoulder. To Ludwig's eyes, ones that had grown weary of young men dragged into oblivion by barking old men, it was both terrifying and entertaining to watch. He, however, had no time to waste on such considerations.

He sprang towards the door barely excusing himself away. Magda Tannenbaum's outraged stare followed him, but he didn't care.

A beaming expression greeted him, and it seemed ill-suited to the severe green of his clothes. Alfred looked different in the light of day, more tangible, a warm hand shaking Ludwig's own with a knowing grin plastered upon his face.

"Is this the _Edelstein Funeral Home_?"

 _What's the meaning of this, Alfred?_

"Yes. We're burying someone right now, in fact."  
"This means you're busy?"  
"Yes."  
"No way I can chat you up for a moment? Strictly business, that is."

Ludwig only stared, unamused by whatever this was supposed to be. He'd always been careful, and this boy was throwing everything he did to keep his daily life separate from his private nights. Alfred shrugged, still smiling.

"Seems like the sergeant will be disappointed, then."

Ludwig sighed. He passed a hand through his hair, taking off the yarmulke he only ever wore for funerals such as this one in the process. It made old ladies like Magda Tannenbaum more bearable, somehow.

"What are you doing here?"

Alfred closed his eyes, put his hands into his pockets. His whole body seemed to take a slump, and Ludwig instantly bit his lips in regret of speaking too quickly, too rudely. Truth was that Ludwig was a coward, had always been.

"I was looking for you. You didn't call."

There was the same playful tone still to his voice, the same game as in that hazy night in _Paradise_ in what seemed like a decade ago. Alfred was reckless and he stuck out like the _goy_ he was at a Jewish funeral, but Ludwig still couldn't bring himself to be mad, or to answer anything that wouldn't be a lie. He stayed silent.

As if he was reading his thoughts, Alfred gave a quick look over his shoulder at the grieving women and aging greying men inside. His neck stretched, and Ludwig caught himself staring at the line of his throat, and how it pressed lightly against the fabric of his collar. A golden little pin glinted on his lapel.

Alfred caught him too, and it made him laugh.

"You seem surprised."  
"I am."  
"Is it the suit? I wanted to look my best. The girls love a man in a uniform."

He was being cheeky, too, of course. Their conversation had attracted already a few stares, and some whispering. Ludwig crossed his arms over his chest. He needed to keep composure and hopefully get whatever this was dealt with.

"How did you know I worked here?"  
"Darling told me when I told her you had stood me up."

Typical. Ludwig suppressed an eyeroll. That too, Alfred seemed to catch, and he scratched the side of his head with an uneasy expression on his features. His whole demeanour kept a somewhat carefree tone, but there was a hint of worry in his voice now.

"Do you want me to leave?"

He was young, Ludwig never failed to be reminded of that very fact. It was his charm, and his weakness, or, more exactly, Ludwig's weakness. Medals from the last war still danced on his coat, and Ludwig tried not to think too much about what that entailed. Bridges had been burned for him decades ago already.

"No," Ludwig finally breathed out, and light seemed to flood back into Alfred's face. "Just… Just wait for me here. I'll be back in a minute."

They ended up on a bench in a square not too far from the funeral home. It was a small square, with a few trees, and a few children too, surrounded by the working-class apartment brick buildings and their spiralling stairs. The sun caressed Ludwig's face as they walked, and he wasn't sure what to make of that odd sense of peace mixed with a fluttering feeling to his stomach he stood next to what was basically a stranger.

The city shone in a different way in the light of day, and so did Alfred's face as Ludwig offered him macaroons he's been entrusted with before leaving. Roderich always a bit of a matronly air about him whenever he made concessions such as these, but he didn't ask even though there was always that slight frown upon his face whenever things like these happened. He knew, still he stayed silent. It was for the best.

"Take some of these with you," he'd insisted, picking sweets from the dessert tray and placing them in a brown bag. "There's going to be leftovers anyway and I'm sure the old man Rosenberg would have liked you to have them."

Alfred bit into the cookie with enthusiasm, and bits of coconut lingered on his lips. Ludwig fought the urge to lean forwards and wipe some of it away. It was strange. It was strange to think how easy it was to get one's heart knocked over from its little shelf and plunging into the unknown.

Ludwig closed his eyes.

"You didn't tell me you were a soldier," he said.

Alfred laughed, passing a hand over his mouth to chase whatever crumbs had been left there.

"Well, we didn't get to chat very much, or at least chat about things I would remember now. I mean, you didn't tell me you buried people as a living."

Ludwig smiled, a little bit, from the corner of his mouth.

"Fair enough."

He picked a macaroon from the paper bag, observed it for a few instants before placing it between his teeth and taking a small first bite. The sweetness felt almost dizzying against his palate.

"You know, it's not usually my style to do things like these," Alfred said. "I know that it's usually pointless."

Ludwig rose an eyebrow.

"What is?"  
"Seeking you out after what was basically a one night stand. But I guessed that I didn't have anything to lose."

Alfred shook his head, chuckling lightly.

"So here I am."

A moment seemed to pass, and Ludwig observed him, the warmth that seemed inherent to his whole person, the way the corner of his eyes seemed to follow his lips when he smiled. This was awkward, and it was partly Ludwig fault, maybe. He was getting a bit old for these things, for love and lust, and that he was afraid of breaking a perfectly charming young man such as Alfred was. It all seemed too familiar, but still Ludwig let himself drift towards a small nod, placing his hands in his pockets.

In front of them, in that tiny square, pigeons gathered around an old man with a small loaf of stale bread. Under each of the man's gestures, the crowd of birds seemed to dance.

"I'm not sure what it is exactly that you want from me, Alfred."

Ludwig, with calculated motions, picked up a cigarette case from his coat, observed it as he spoke. It was oddly expensive looking, given Ludwig's rather modest means, with an engraved ivory lid encased in what seemed like a silver case. It didn't escape Alfred's gaze, who nevertheless feigned to ignore it.

"I like you," Alfred said. "It's the broken old man air you carry around with you. I'm sure there's an awful freudian explanation to it, but I don't care."

Ludwig chuckled darkly, placing the case back into his pocket. It was pointless to think about it now.

"I'm not sure if I should feel flattered or offended by this."  
"All I meant to say was that I want to give this a try. You and me. I felt something with you, and I want to feel more. It was stupid of me to leave as fast as I did, but I had to think this over, and know."

There was the same urgency in Alfred's voice as there had been in his gestures, in bed, during a night that now felt both hazy and incredibly vivid to Ludwig's mind. He thought about fingers and skin, and lips and tongue, and shivered.

The last few years had been strange. America had been strange, with its married men and upright morals, so far away from the Berlin of old, a Berlin Ludwig knew would never rise again. It had been strange to see people die and be buried, to let go of his typewriter and of long lost dreams. It had been strange to look down to unopened letters time after time that he'd never managed to burn as they piled upon each other in a shoebox next to old photographs.

Maybe it was time for him to let go, or at least give destiny a chance, for once.

Gravity shifted, and Ludwig fell back to the present, back to the children running and the old man feeding pigeons.

"Alright," he said, raising up, and Alfred's gaze followed him as he straightened his vest. "Alright…"

There was hope in Alfred's uncharacteristic silence. The brown paper bag stood on the bench stupidly, but it didn't matter much to him, or so it seemed.

"Let's give this a try."

* * *

Roderich had this funny expression whenever he was upset. He'd always been a very fussy person, as being fussy about details was what the profession of putting people underground was all about. Details probably were the reason why he enjoyed music so much, too, and why enjoyed even more rambling about his disdain of jazz music.

"Too messy," he would say. "No structure, no respect, no tradition. Definitely a music for the _goy_ and the _shwartza_."

Roderich, however, wasn't dissecting melodies and longing for the old conservatory in Vienna right now. He was having his evening coffee, eyes peering over what seemed like a battered yiddish copy of Sholem Aleichem's collected plays. It was, unsurprisingly enough, Roderich's only Yiddish book. As always, old Viennese habits never truly died; his mind only satisfied itself with the best.

He looked up when Ludwig entered the room, pressing his glasses up his nose to give himself countenance. Ludwig liked to think Roderich looked like a schoolboy caught cheating red handed whenever anyone saw him reading anything that wasn't related to Torah study or music. It was the messy hair and the little cough, along with the soft sound of paper being hastily pressed shut.

"Mrs. Tannenbaum talked to me about you. She said she'd like you to meet her daughter Julia. Very pretty girl, I must say."

This whole dance Roderich orchestrated so often around Ludwig wasn't new, and Ludwig knew the steps expertly.

"I'll try to meet her sometimes, then."

He wouldn't. They both knew he wouldn't.

"You know you don't have to. If I'm allowed to be a tad bit selfish, you taking care of a family would be a rather rough blow to the family's business. You've been very helpful tonight, thank you."

There was not a word about Alfred, but that in itself didn't exactly surprise Ludwig. The slight anger he could perceive in Roderich's whole demeanour, however, didn't seem to go away. It was something else bothering him, probably. There was shifting, silent moment between the two of them, and he could feel Roderich getting restless.

Then, he looked on the table, at the tiny white envelope in front of his cousin, and understood. It seemed like Roderich caught him doing so. He had an eye for these things, and he quickly picked the letter up, as if on cue.

"You know, he keeps writing to you," he said, holding it in Ludwig's direction, offering him what he perfectly know was unwanted advice.  
"I can see that."

Roderich frowned, and he was burning to tell Ludwig something, anything, but he wasn't nearly dumb enough to think that whatever he might say would change anything. He handed him the letter, and Ludwig took it, even though the paper almost seemed to burn his fingers. They had had this conversation before, and there was nothing left to say on the matter.

It had been years already, but there had been too many things standing between Ludwig and his past already, things that he wasn't sure he ever could let go of.

He did his best to nod and not make Roderich angrier that he already was. He did owe the man a lot, and he knew it, but the letter in his pocket, who would end up unopened tonight on the coffee table of his small apartment, felt like a burden he was forced to carry.

"Thank you for keeping it for me. I wanted to go clean the shop a bit before tomorrow and leave, if that's okay with you."  
"Yes, sure," Roderich said on the tip of his lips, before sipping from his coffee. "Oh, and Elizavetta wants you to know you're welcome to come for _Shabbat_ dinner tomorrow," We both hope you'll be there."

It was a charming thought, as usual, from Roderich's wife. The undertaking business kept them afloat enough to leave time for both Roderich's hobbies and most devout occupations. Elizavetta, halfway converted as she was, prided herself in cooking the best goulash of the neighbourhood, a title that was amply deserved and had managed to ease the pre-existing tensions between her and the rest of the women from the community.

Still, Ludwig was boiling now, and as if on a tactical agreement, both him and Roderich actively avoided each other's gaze. They did not yell at each other, but it didn't make any of these interactions any more pleasant.

"I'll try to make it," Ludwig lied flatly, already halfway out of the room. "I'll try."

When he left the shop, later that night, the air felt fresh against his face. He still thought about Alfred with that slight longing smile on his face. The letter in his pocket was forgotten, for a very brief instant, and the key locked the funeral home with a light little click. The black obelisk, with its sharp angles, almost saluted him out.

As he walked home that night, the city roared around him, buzzing away any thoughts of a past that felt better buried in his memory.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: _Lady Sings the Blues_

Ludwig always arrived early, and yet he instantly regretted doing so the moment he stepped foot into the hotel in which Alfred had told him to meet him. He felt utterly out of place here. The hall was a large, spacious Art Deco renovation of an older building, and it seemed both to serve as a shield for the masses pressing themselves outside in the streets of the roaring city and as a reassurance of its own power. Its business card, which Ludwig had picked up on his way in, proudly boasted its restricted clientele in fine golden script.

He sat anxiously, ordering something stronger than he usually would so early, keeping in mind the usual fake name of "Lewis Smith" with the most perfect imitation of a British accent and obsessively checking his wristwatch. This wasn't like how he did things, and there was this recklessness about Alfred's ways that both terrified and aroused him.

The man in question arrived late, and with a large sparkling smile that never seemed to abandon him. Ludwig felt something inside him flutter. This was ridiculous and dangerous but it was dragging him in, bit by bit.

He waved awkwardly, and Alfred beamed, coming to shake his hand as if they were two very friendly business acquaintances. It felt odd, and yet Ludwig rolled with it, albeit a tad bit nervously.

"I hope you don't mind me being a little bit late. Taxi got ridiculous on the Main Avenue, ended up stuck in traffic."

Alfred shrugged, passed a hand through his short hair. It made Ludwig smile, how he seemed to seamlessly mix easy nonchalance and boyish nervousness, now that he thought about it.

They shared dry martinis in a recluse corner in the back of the hall. Alfred ordered with that false familiarity that comes with a lifetime of money. Obviously he came here often, and seemed to be the embodiment of the advertised "restricted" wealthy All-American client side from, well, the unnatural penchant they both shared. The thought made Ludwig frown, but he quickly opted to drink his anxiety away, listening to Alfred's singing hint of a southern accent he hadn't realized was there before.

"You do realize that I barely know anything about you, aside from the fact that you're the most undisciplined soldier I've ever met."

The witticism made Alfred laugh as he stirred his drink with the toothpick it came with, before placing the olive garnish between his teeth and biting it with sharp teeth.

"You sound like you don't know many soldiers."

 _Trust me, I do._

"I wish I didn't," Ludwig said diplomatically, and it seemed to surprise Alfred a little.

"Me too, now that I think of it," he said with a sip of his drink. "But as they say, in Paris, _c'est la vie_!"

The rather impressive pronunciation tipped Ludwig off.

"That's where you served?"  
"I'm glad you picked that up," Alfred smiled, a little bit too fondly to Ludwig's taste. "You ever been there?"

The armchairs had this relaxing plush feeling, and Ludwig felt this nagging tension in the back of his neck he'd felt ever since he'd passed the hotel's large glass doors ease slightly.

"Long time ago. Before the war. It wasn't the same city back then."  
"Pretty sure it can't beat Liberation Day," Alfred shrugged. "Fancy booze for any man in a uniform and enough French girls for a whole army of johns away from their girlfriends for several months."  
"Sounds like a blast."

Alfred laughed.

"Not like I cared much myself. French boys were fun, and pretty cheap."  
"Obviously, you've never been to Berlin."

Something that Ludwig hadn't seen before seemed to light up in Alfred's face. He seemed to lean forward ever so slightly like a predator ready to catch a prey. Ludwig felt like he was played with, suddenly , but he found it hard to care. The light warmth of alcohol was making its way down his belly, along with something more. It took him some effort to take his eyes off Alfred's lips.

"Tell me about it. That's where you're from, right?"  
"You've done your homework."

Alfred gave him an apologetic, yet still somewhat earnest expression, retreating back into his armchair.

"I had to. Hard not to be a little bit worried about tall handsome blond Germans with a fresh European tilt to their speech nowadays. Although it didn't take me long to understand whatever I had in mind was wrong."  
"You're going to have to buy me another drink if you want me to forget what you've just said," Ludwig let out with an faint smile over his face.

Alfred laughed.

"You're a very talented diplomat, Mr Beilschmidt. Another round it is, then."

They talked for what both felt like a few seconds and an entire decade. Alfred had enough wit to be interesting but enough self control to be enjoyable, even though his speech took an newfound ecstatic energy after his third drink. He asked about Berlin like a scorched throat would ask for water and there was this dreamy quality to his eyes as Ludwig spoke of the cabarets, the falling Deutschmark, the communists, the revolutionaries and jazz. Ludwig even caught himself falling into an oddly nostalgic speech about the rent boys of Unter den Linden and the foreigners with flashy money taking advantage of a ridiculous exchange rate in the old Prussian metropolis slowly losing itself to the clashing changes of time.

"Would you go back, I mean to the past, if you could?"

Alfred had this expression of deep thought as he spoke. He seemed engrossed in Ludwig's story in a way that was surprising to Ludwig himself. These were, after all, only an aging bitter man's stories about a time long gone, and that would never be ever again.

"I don't know. One can never know about these things, I fear."  
"That usually means yes, you know."

Ludwig wasn't sure if Alfred's tone was mocking him or not. It was youth, as always, and the fact that Ludwig, slowly but surely, was growing older every second he spent with him. Time came and went too fast.

It was strange, how Alfred seemed to get under his skin with an ease that felt almost supernatural. Ludwig would have liked to blame it on the alcohol, but he wasn't nearly as drunk as to lose any self-control when Alfred leaned closer to him, his hand on his thigh and his breath tickling his neck.

"It might not be like the Berlin you talked about but… I like this hotel because they're surprisingly discrete when you're ready to leave a decent tip. Follow me upstairs?"

Ludwig gave him a look, and he knew what he wanted. He felt warm and comfortable, at ease in a way that should have frightened him. He wasn't, though. He nodded slowly, with the ever so slight hint of a smile to his face, before finishing the rest of his drink in one quick gulp.

"You're a talented diplomat, Mr Jones. Another round it is."

* * *

"You know what I miss from the old country?" Darling said, with a glass of cheap wine in one of her hands as she looked around the room.

It had become a bit of a tradition for Ludwig to take her out every once in awhile in that cheap greasy spoon that stood just a few steps away from his apartment. He hadn't seen her as often as he felt he should have. Alfred had taken up a large amount of his time a bit by accident, or it seemed, and Ludwig had yet to find a way to get himself to say him no. Darling understood, or so he hoped.

The place was one of those small but never empty businesses that had somehow managed to survive the war and now thrived on the newfound prosperity of peace. The restaurant had been recently refurbished with tables covered with linoleum and brightly coloured seats on the southern wall, not too far from the windows.

Darling always looked odd whenever they came here. She was out of her usual flowery dresses and makeup, the blond cropped hair skept short under her wigs for church. It didn't keep her from holding her glass with a dainty, manicured hand that did earn her a few stares that she gleefully ignored with an amused smile to her lips.

"I don't know," Ludwig said, taking a sip from his coffee.

Darling had hardly touched her plate all evening, but had drunk several glasses of wine. Ludwig hadn't taken up her offer to accompany her. He knew she could easily drink him under the table.

"Goddamn pierogies. That's what I miss."  
"Doesn't the old lady Wiegopolsky serve some at her restaurant not too far from here?"

Darling snorted.

"She's from _Ukraine_ "

To this, Ludwig could only make a slightly perplexed face. To this, Darling could only in turn roll her eyes. She sighed.

"The ration of flour to sour cream in her dough is wrong," she explained. "It makes the pierogies too chewy."

She put her glass back on the table, picked a cold french cry from her place and placed it between her teeth, biting into it as if to illustrate her point.

"Of course, Germans like you wouldn't be able to tell the difference even if it exploded upon their faces."

Ludwig nodded in reluctant agreement. She was, of course, right, and he had to close his eyes to keep himself from enumerating the other things the Germans never really would understand. There were too many.

"How's that cute little thing you brought home last time?" she changed the subject. "The poor kid came to my door because you hadn't called him back."  
"I know."

Darling gave him a look.

"Did you know he was a soldier? I would have told him your feelings towards, well, men in uniforms, but it would have felt out of place, I fear."

Ludwig observed a pause. Thoughts rushed back into place in his mind. Oh.

"You're the one who told him to wear that," he said flatly.

Darling giggled.

"He does look good in it, doesn't he? Too good for you, if you ask me."

Ludwig rose an eyebrow.

"Jealous?"  
"No, dear God, heavens no! That boy is neither rich nor educated like I like my men to be. You're the one who falls for cute brainless little things that will break your heart, not me."

She observed her nail polish as she spoke, her head slightly bowed down, and it's only at that moment that Ludwig realised she'd slightly traced her eyebrows tonight. It suited her, unlike the definitely badly cut suit.

"What makes you think he'll break my heart?" he asked politely, passing a napkin to his mouth as he finished eating.

Darling didn't answer right away. Her hand flew to her scalp, missing the usual blond locks she'd move around dramatically in that kind of moment. To Ludwig, for a brief instant, the realisation that something was missing felt infinitely tragic.

"They all break your heart, sweetie. You push them to do it because it feeds your very romantic, very German and very Jewish persecution complex."

Ludwig kept thinking about Darling's words as he headed towards his apartment after walking his friend home. They'd discussed other things, jazz, the old country that was dead and gone forever, whatever new depressing 19th century writer Darling had gotten her hands on lately. She read voraciously, a remnant of Catholic school and the dreadful five years in and Eastern Prussian boarding school she'd only survive thanks to Schiller, or so she liked to say. He'd entertained her, but still, half-formulated ideas kept turning inside his head.

It was one of his faults, to think things over too much. Darling had said that to him several times, and Gilbert, Gilbert had said that to him too, in what seemed like another life, now.

That night, when he came home, he looked over his coffee table.

The paper felt shivery under his fingertips, and he sat in his small kitchen, opening the envelope with a butter knife. He knew what was coming and he knew it was bad, as always, but he couldn't help but to succumb to his own curiosity every time.

Ludwig took out the letter, before placing his glasses over his nose, and read.

 **Dear Ludwig,**

 **It's been a few weeks since I last wrote to you, and it seemed like the right time to send you something again. Edelstein assures me you're doing good, and that you're working as hard as always. He still writes with that unchanging bourgeois tone and needlessly flowery prose, and is definitely unable to keep filthy Yiddish locutions from colouring his speech.**

 **I must admit that I hardly ever use German nowadays, except to write you letters and read whatever our dearest cousin says about you. Every time, I can't help but to be reminded of the haughty _goyim_ we had as schoolmasters back in the days. If anything, Edelstein is the very incarnation of that dreadful _galuth_ mentality we're trying to get rid of here, in Israel.**

 **Oh, I can already see you frown, now, if you're reading this that is. You still haven't forgiven me, haven't you? It's okay, I feel like I would have done the same in your place. Still, you're far much of a better person than your older brother could ever wish to be, so I keep hoping I'll have news from your own hand, one day.**

 **You know, even though I probably have said it before in my letters, that summer is very beautiful in the Palestine? It's, of course, nothing like ugly grey Berlin, but every year I can't help thinking you'd like it.**

 **It's dry and insufferably warm, a bit like that summer vacation we spent in Rome as children, and the youths who've freshly arrived from Europe now work hard under the scorching heat. The promised land makes men different, or so it seems. I wonder what it would have done to you, who've always been the obedient, hardworking little Ludwig. I don't think I'll ever get to know, but I can dream, can't I?**

 **Last week, we had our first harvest from the watermelon field I told you about in my previous letter. The setting up of the place was hell, but it's finally bearing fruits. Our newcomers from Russia have been putting aside their Hebrew lessons to help with it, and we gladly appreciate what they're doing, even though communication tends to be a bit difficult at times.**

 **Talking about work, I wonder, as always, about your writing. From what I've understood, you haven't been doing very much lately. It's a shame. I'm sure America can't wait for another Jew to raise his voice about the war, although somehow I doubt you'll decry very much the fatherland that has abandoned the both of us. You'll hate me for saying this, but it's not like the both of us weren't already on bad terms; I feel that it's your ridiculous adolescent slave sentimentality that's dragging you down, as always. There's no future in the New World for you the same way there was no future for me in the Old Continent. We are, after all, brothers.**

 **Oh dear. It seems like I have managed to make sure you won't write back now, haven't I?**

 **It doesn't matter. I don't think anything I will ever write will ever convince you to put aside what belongs and should be laid to rest in the past. It's okay, in a way, but I still wish you'd come and see this place for yourself before judging me, or whatever I've done so harshly. We'll be growing into old men soon, and grudges like yours kill slowly.**

 **Whatever I've left behind in Berlin, whatever you might reproach me, I don't feel guilty about it. It was us or them, it's always been us or them and it will always be us or them. It was fun to fool ourselves into believing in international fraternity and revolution, but the truth is that there isn't anything that will ever make us like them, not after all that's past. I know it isn't the first time I write you this, but I don't even know if you read what I've been sending to you in the past five years.**

 **I'm waiting, Ludwig. I'm waiting for you to come back, or at least talk to me.**

 **Your brother, Gilbert**

The paper felt crisp and sharp against his palms, and he ached to destroy it, knowing very well that this wouldn't happen. He would fold it back into the envelope, place it in that tin box where every single one of Gilbert's letters ended up, and never answer.

He sighed, allowed himself a cigarette, and one of the jazz records Alfred had gifted him on a whim, for the night.


End file.
